


Falling With Style

by ch3rryvodk4



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:05:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ch3rryvodk4/pseuds/ch3rryvodk4
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even after the death of his closest friend, John Watson still treats Sherlock Holmes as an active part of his life, texting him regularly and drinking to conjure a spectre of his best friend despite the negative effects not being able to accept Sherlock's death is having on him. Sherlock, however, is alive and receiving every text, the separation just as difficult on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_It’s been a year. When are you coming home? –JW_

Doctor John Watson, a shadow of his former self, sends the text and looks down at the grave before him. The black, glossy headstone reads, ‘SHERLOCK HOLMES’. There’s no date of birth or death, simply his name. John’s skin clings to his bones and is sickly pale. His psychosomatic limp has returned and he rests most of his weight against his cane. 

For the past year, he hasn’t given up on his former friend. He refuses to believe that someone so brilliant could really be dead. Sherlock was much too clever to go out like he did. He was the kind who wouldn’t simply die. He would not die a quiet, peaceful death. He would go out with a bang and you would very well know. Every day, John texts him, tells him about his day, passing thoughts, and pleas for him to return to the doctor’s side. John’s life has slowed around him; he still takes shifts at the surgery to pay rent, and kind Mrs Hudson has lowered it to what he can afford, saying that she’d never be able to get any new tenants for the flat anyway thanks to its infamous associations. He rarely speaks to anyone he doesn’t absolutely have to. Mycroft and Lestrade check on him every now and then to make sure he’s still alive, and Mrs Hudson ensures that he eats. 

Much of John’s ‘life’ is spent on his phone. He talks to Sherlock more than anyone, though all he ever gets in return is silence, save for the times when his blood carries enough alcohol to create wisps of Sherlock for him, a spectre hand, a disembodied voice, a flash of that smile that often seemed as if it were reserved only for John himself. And when he can hold on to consciousness long enough, he creates his own Sherlock and talks to him and Sherlock talks back. In the small hours of the morning, John often finds himself listening to mind-Sherlock for hours on end, his voice dancing all around the flat. Times like those are when John closes his eyes and lets himself believe that nothing has changed, that everything was as it was before his flatmate’s death.

Today John has brought the offering of a small wreath of lilies for Sherlock’s grave. He knows Sherlock wasn’t fond of sentiment, but something felt wrong about coming empty-handed and there was nothing he felt Sherlock would have particularly wanted at any rate. 

_I hope you like lilies. –JW_

He sighs and sets the wreath on the ground. Somehow, it feels as if texting will make it real. When he speaks, he knows he’s only getting air, but at least he knows that the phone number is Sherlock’s. And at least then he doesn’t have to feel quite so disappointed when he’s left with only an unresponsive silence. 

_Come back soon. –JW_

John stays still for a moment, mulling over what to do next. He could stay, spend the anniversary here, maybe even get something to eat, show Sherlock that he’s okay, that he’s alive, despite his delicate, sickly appearance and the feeling of emptiness that hasn’t left him since he saw Sherlock’s body bloodied and mangled on the pavement. No matter what he elects to do, he’s going to be thinking about Sherlock. That’s all he ever really does anymore.

And so John sits, plucking a long, soft petal from one of the lilies and toying with it between his fingers. He traces the letters on the headstone with his index finger. He opts to speak now, as if perhaps the corpse six feet beneath him will hear. 

“I miss you a great deal, you know. But umm… I guess that’s not news to you is it? I tell you almost every day. Not that you can hear me… Sherlock, please, I’ve had enough. I’ve never been so… so out of place. Nothing’s right without you.” He stammers quietly, taking shaky breaths in between each sentence. He finds that his strong front is quickly crumbling and he stands, brushing off his trousers. “If I cry now, I’m sure it would just annoy you, yeah?” John laughs bitterly. “Us simple humans and our simple minds with our simple feelings. They do get in the way of things don’t they, emotions?” Another long and sorrowful sigh. “Goodbye for now, Sherlock.” He nods shortly and turns to leave, taking a deep breath and blinking back the wetness pricking at the backs of his eyes. 

_I really have to stop letting you get under my skin like this. –JW_

John walks home rather briskly, itching to get away from the place that makes his stomach twist uncomfortably and knot his throat so tightly he feels as if he can’t breathe. He stops to get a bottle of scotch whiskey, deciding that tonight is a night to pretend Sherlock isn’t dead. What better way to celebrate his death than to make believe that it never happened at all? John nearly snorts at his ridiculous stubbornness. He’s drinking before he’s even all the way inside, but he doesn’t care. The second that the hot liquid reaches John’s lips he’s intoxicated with the desire to see Sherlock. He wonders what fragments his mind will allow him of the man tonight. He is sometimes restricted to seeing Sherlock move about the flat, communicating through subtle body language and the facial expressions that John knows how to read so well, and other times it’s only a voice resonating throughout the residence, penetrating John’s skull and imprinting itself on his brain. No matter what happens, John will never forget Sherlock. His body and mind are adamant that the world’s only consulting detective has branded John’s soul permanently. 

John tries not to think of how completely and utterly he belongs to Sherlock as he downs the bottle much quicker than is considered to be healthy. Instead he closes his eyes and breathes in deeply through his nose. If he concentrates, he can still picture Sherlock before him, tall and unmoving, face stoic and pale and oh so perfectly accented by high cheekbones and short, dark curls. Heat pools in his belly and he opens his eyes to a drunken hallucination of his friend. The phantom offers a small wave and sits, cross-legged, on the floor by John’s feet, who slides out of his armchair to join the image.

“How are you doing?” He asks softly, too soft. John shrugs and sighs. “Everyone’s rather worried about you.” John stays silent, as if speaking will tear away the fantasy and drag John back to the undeniable reality of Sherlock’s death. So he just listens. “You should take better care of yourself.” The ghost huffs. “God knows I never did. But I want you to live, John.” Hearing his name sends a shiver down John’s spine. “I worry about you as well.” He flashes John a look of concern, but he’s starting to fade and please don’t go, please stay, not again, I want you, I need you. John reaches out for Sherlock’s hand but the illusion has disappeared before he can even try to touch. John curses and considers drinking more but decides the purpose of Sherlock’s all-too brief appearance was some piece of his subconscious telling him to stop with the drinking for one night and get some sleep, god damn it. 

John showers off the smell of scotch and flowers, the day threatening to overload his senses. He changes into his pyjamas and lingers at Sherlock’s doorway before going to his own room to sleep. He sends one final text to Sherlock before allowing exhaustion to claim him for the night.

_Why can’t I get over you? -JW_


	2. Chapter 2

_I wish you’d stayed longer last night. –JW_

Sherlock frowned and shut his mobile. John had evidently spent the anniversary of his ‘death’ drinking yet again in an attempt to conjure up a drunken hallucination of Sherlock. It pained him in a way he couldn’t explain to know that John still wasn’t able to get past Sherlock’s apparent suicide. He wanted nothing more than to be allowed to come back to John, or just text him back already. He flipped the phone back open and typed out a message.

_I’ll be home soon, I promise. Wait for me. –SH_

He quickly deleted the message and shoved his mobile into the pocket of his coat, not sure he’d be able to control himself much longer if he continued to read through John’s texts. He sighed heavily and slunk away from the dead body behind him, one of Moriarty’s men, and one of the last, according to Mycroft’s sources. Just a few more weeks, Mycroft had promised him. Just a few more weeks until he would be allowed to return home to John. His John.

Over the year, John had told Sherlock everything. And by everything, he meant absolutely everything. Every date, every girlfriend, every break-up, every night spent nursing bottles of alcohol in the hopes of fooling himself into pretending that Sherlock was still alive and with him. It tangled up his insides every time he got a text saying ‘I’ll see you tonight’ or ‘How about tonight’s date then’, even ‘It’s only noon but I need you right now’ and it made Sherlock angry that he couldn’t be with John. That he, the real Sherlock, had to play second to John’s imagination. He told himself that he was most definitely not jealous of the phantasmal Sherlock that got to occupy the same space as John, hear his voice, see his face, and just be with him. 

A couple times Sherlock had gotten lucky and received a call from John. He didn’t pick up of course, but rather waited in hopes of a voicemail, and no matter how heart-breaking the message or how absolutely devastating John sounded, he’d listen to it over and over again, just to have some piece of John still with him. 

_‘Sherlock? It’s me, John. And umm… it’s been a couple of weeks and I don’t know how I’m going to put myself back together just… I never knew how much I needed you… I never knew. I never knew until you left me and I realized just how alone I was… just how much I really desperately needed you... so, umm… I don’t know. What do you want me to do without you?’_

Sherlock had wanted to tell John to keep living, to stand tall and face the world with the same John-courage he once had. He wanted so badly to tell his friend that he’d come back one day, he just needed some time. All he needed was some time. Time. 

_‘It’s been almost a year. It hurts still. You ruined me, Sherlock. God I’m not sure whether I want to cry or punch you, but I want to do it to you, and I want you back. I need you. Need you, Sher…’_

John had sounded tipsy. A very sad, serious kind of intoxicated, as if the first drops of alcohol clarified his vision before clouding it. At the end his words had started to slur and Sherlock had nearly broken the phone as he gripped it tightly, wanting – no, needing – to be there for his friend, who obviously needed him just as bad. 

Sherlock sent his brother a quick text, informing him that he’d finished off this round of hit-men and wanted more locations of more people who dared stand between him and seeing John. The sooner he knew it was safe, the sooner he could come out of hiding and try to make everything as normal as possible. 

Sherlock blended into the shadows, stalking his prey, his gun fully loaded, finger resting lightly on the trigger. Two men here, four more in an old warehouse in London, and another group hiding somewhere, location unknown. Just the last few groups and he’d be in the clear. The two men currently being stalked by Sherlock spoke in hushed voices, completely unaware of Sherlock’s presence until one bullet had fired through the skull of the first man and Sherlock had pistol-whipped the cheek of the second and pressed the barrel to his temple.

“I know there are more of you. Tell me where your cohorts are hiding,” He growled, hoping this one would make his life just a tad easier. He could hardly expect very much from such low-level goons but it was worth a try.

“I don’t know anything,” He replied calmly. He seemed to know that he was a dead man, whether he actually knew anything or not. “I’m as in the dark as you are.” 

Sherlock let out a snort of disbelief. “Is that so?” The man refused to answer. Sherlock jabbed the gun at the side of his forehead but received no response. “Then you’re wasting my time,” He drew out the last few syllables, his mouth perfectly forming every vowel and stretching them out. “I hate people who waste my time.” Sherlock added before pulling the trigger, clicking in discontentment when he realized he’d just dirtied his coat with the dead man’s blood. “Such a shame.” He murmured to himself. “It was one of my favourites, too.” Perhaps a trip to the dry cleaner’s would be necessary upon his return to civilized society. 

Sheathing his gun, Sherlock sent yet another text to Mycroft, informing him of the deaths. He resigned to his anonymously prepaid motel, slipping into his room late at night without drawing any attention to himself. He latched the door shut before allowing himself to check his mobile. Three new messages.

_I think I’m finally starting to get a grip. -JW_

_You’re not coming back, are you? –JW_

_Goodbye, Sherlock. –JW_

No. No, no, no, this is not good. Sherlock can’t be totally sure of what John means, but it worries him. Beyond worries, it terrifies him and if this is what he’s afraid it is, things are about to get very messy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short chapter, lots of stuff going on :/  
> More next time though, I promise

It was in this way that John awoke with a thunderous headache and a deep feeling of regret pitted in his stomach.

After sitting up too quickly, John's world spun, and his regret grew. He slowly made his way to the bathroom once the dizziness has calmed. He had ventured in with the intention of washing his face and perhaps showering as well. Aforementioned plans went awry quite abruptly when John's stomach lurched and his legs buckled beneath him.

John had prided himself on his strong stomach, able to perform surgery and hold down copious amounts of liquor without any physiological complications. And so, when the minimal contents of his stomach along with wretched, stinging bile were violently expelled from John's mouth, he blamed it on the emotional trauma of it all.

For several hours, John remained for the most part, on the cold tile floor of the bathroom. When he was not vomiting, he was sipping water or brushing his teeth in a fruitless attempt to cleanse his mouth of the sour and acidic taste. The floor refused to warm with the energy of John's body heat. He merely shivered and cursed the linen closet for being down the hall, preventing him from getting a towel or sheet to kneel on as he became sicker and feverish.

Face hot and sweaty, with short and scraggly sandy brown-blond hair plastered to his clammy forehead, John pressed the butts of his palms to eyes, rubbing at them exhaustedly. He slowly used the toilet as leverage to raise his body up, carefully leaning against the wall as he walked against it to get to a bed.

The bedroom nearest the bathroom was Sherlock's cluttered and untouched room. John's sickened stumbling into the room would have been something of a great feat had he been of sound mind at the time of entrance. Perhaps when he regained his proper senses, he would realise the magnitude of his actions.

He propelled his body onward and into the stiffly made bed, surrounding himself in musty sheets, the faint scent of Sherlock clinging to them, as if the very bedclothes were as desperate to retain some piece of him as John was. It was both comforting and haunting to John as he cocooned himself. There was little time to analyse his exact feelings, however, as he was asleep in mere seconds.

The second time that John awoke that day, his head had cleared enough for him to fully take in his location. Even before his eyes had opened, he knew where he was. There was no place in his flat that smelled as these sheets. He quickly figured out that he was in Sherlock's rarely inhabited bed.

He sat abruptly, eyes darting around the room, searching for anything out of place. Anything that might indicate that he disturbed the stillness and sanctity of Sherlock's room. Books were piled high around him, leather-bound covers gathering layers of dust. Microscopes and surgical tools littered the desk. All signs were clearly indicative of some restraint on John's part, as only the bedclothes were out of place.

"Sherlock..." He whispered quietly, and a revaluation hit John like a tonne of bricks had been dropped on his stomach, along with a fresh wave of nausea. He managed to locate his mobile and tap out three texts relaying his findings before John was barrelling for the bathroom again. Sherlock, his Sherlock, his brilliant, clever, quirky, strange, wonderful Sherlock, was dead, wasn't he? Dead and never coming back.

John did his best to convince himself that the warm salty droplets leaking from his eyes and staining his worn face were from physical exhaustion and over exertion.


	4. Chapter 4

Three men lay dead at Sherlock's blood-stained feet but he could not care less. All he cared about was _fixing_ this. He phoned Mycroft who answered on the first ring.

"Yes, brother?" His voice was grainy thanks to the poor connection.

"They're dead. They're all dead. I want to go back to John." Sherlock spoke quickly, irritated. Not with Mycroft, who had actually been rather... Understanding and helpful throughout the whole affair.

There was a long sigh followed by a short pause. "I know you want this, but you must be careful. Stay with Molly Hooper until I can get the rest sorted out. Only she and Lestrade are to know until I say otherwise, understand?"

"When can I go to him then?"

"When I say that it's safe. For God's sake Sherlock, please lie low until then. Please. We'll get this sorted, but if you're an impatient git you'll ruin everything. Do you understand me?"

Sherlock grunted in annoyed agreement and shut his mobile a bit harder than was necessary. Taking a deep breath, he relaxed his shoulders. Soon. He would be able to see John soon.

Over the course of the year, Sherlock had learned to make do with very few worldly possessions; not they'd he'd ever been particularly demanding in that realm, not to mention his general distaste for sentimentality and attachment. These facts of Sherlock's personality and lifestyle made the transition into Molly's small flat quick and easy.

Molly was rather jumpy about the whole affair, Sherlock living with her and all. But over the course of the year she had accepted a number of things about Sherlock, one of which was that he had no romantic interest in her and likely never would. Another was that he preferred the company of himself, and she promised that for the week or so that they would be cohabiting she would remain out of his way.

The arrangement worked without any problems. Molly was at work most of the day, only at home for a brief supper and sleep. Sherlock spent the majority of his time cooped up in his room, thinking. Wondering what he would do about John. Pondering how to go about reclaiming his spot in John's life.  It was an arduous task, wrapping his brain around what had been contraband to him for so many months. But he could now. John was within his grasp.

Unfortunately, his first thoughts of John were not of a grand reunion after a devastating separation, but of John's current state. It was one of defeat and hopelessness. Sherlock envisioned the doctor's body cold, lifeless, broken and bloodied, much as the man had seen his own.  Unable to crash the morbid train of thought, one image bloomed into a whole scene before him, a million different scenarios as to how John came to die, every one of them Sherlock's fault.

\-----

John saw Sherlock, out on the streets of London, and he came running, calling out Sherlock’s name, lungs expanding and contracting too quickly from running and yelling, heart beating impossibly fast, feet pounding the pavement. Sherlock sprinted, long legs allowing him to nearly fly as he tried to escape. It killed him, doing this to John. He wanted so badly to just turn and let John see him, be with him. But that couldn't happen, and so Sherlock allowed John's voice to grow hoarse and weak as he chased after Sherlock, vision blurring with moisture, psychosomatic pain creeping back in to the corners of his tortured mind and causing John to fall, crashing into the concrete, head cracking upon the sidewalk, a spray of blood atop grey, and watery blue eyes permanently fixed on what was wanted, needed, desired, necessary, uncontainable.

\-----

A visit to Molly at Bart's. After making pleasantries and small talk, John had made his way up to the roof to eat. Sentimentality was only human nature, after all. And so John found himself on the ledge, wondering what in hell's name Sherlock had been thinking. Wanting to know why. Why he jumped, why like this, why not tell him? The questions plagued John's mind, festered and twisted around in his brain until the familiar tightening of facial muscles coupled with elevated blood pressure and heavy breathing manifested. John watched warm, salty droplets of water fall, fall, fall until they splashed on the street below. Sherlock's suicide must have been John's fault. Everything was, in the end. But now he was going to fix it by making sure no one could fix him just like no one could fix Sherlock. And so he fell. There was a sickening snapping of bones and bursting of arteries, blood flowering from his mangled body. Soul splintered into a thousand-million shards of pain.

\-----

And then came the one that hurt Sherlock most to imagine; the loss of the will to live, to soldier on.  Sherlock knew how bad it was for John. He had seen so much in the war, lost so much, so many people. He had been in pain and introverted and anti-social but then he had met Sherlock. Sherlock who was cold and disinterested and distant, Sherlock who had neither sympathy nor empathy. And yet, with all his dysfunctional habits, he had been the one to make John smile and truly live. Sherlock greatly feared his reaction to the abrupt loss of the detective. Would he revert to his PTSD veteran self? Or would he get worse? Stop eating, sleeping, working, loving, laughing, _living_? Sherlock had heard one too many instances where the loss of a loved one could throw the friend or relative, especially one with a history of depression, spiralling down a path of alcoholism and self-neglect. They would waste away, not bothering to care for themselves, not finding their own lives worth living after losing that loved one. 

\-----

What wrenched Sherlock's heart most was being that loved one. Being cherished, admired, loved, revered. His heart did a very funny thing when he thought of this; it soared.


	5. Chapter 5

It had been a week, and John had not sent a single text to Sherlock -- he didn't have anything to say. He had neither joys nor sorrows, neither anger nor glee, neither pleasure nor pain. He felt empty, as if all this time he had hoped, believed in Sherlock. His belief had wrapped John in duct tape, hiding the cracks and holding him together, keeping him full of hope and often despair. But at least he felt it. And then someone had gone and ripped him apart, leaving him in empty, broken pieces.

He'd been pushed. He felt the pressure of a life caving in around him. He was forced to bend and he broke and this time there was no Sherlock to pick up the pieces. There was just him, completely and utterly alone.

For days John locked himself in the flat, refusing to speak to even Mrs Hudson. When he slept he dreamt on replay; Sherlock falling over and over again, minute whispers permeating the air that only John could hear.

_'John... How could you?'_

_John's throat felt tight, and his mouth dry. 'Do what? What did I do? Sherlock please, what's happening?'_

_'You couldn't save me!' The disembodied voice now raspy and harsh. 'You let me die. You watched every second and you allowed it to happen. How could you?!'_

_'Sherlock-!'_

He awoke in cold sweat, queasy, but his stomach too empty and his body too weak for another round of throwing up.

He didn't want to sleep. He detested the dreams that haunted his subconscious and loathed not being able to control himself; not his mind, not his body, not his soul.

Being awake, however, held very little comfort. His thoughts had turned traitor, insulting and abusing him. It wasn't just about Sherlock anymore, either. It was every mistake in John's life whether personal or professional.

_Holly left you, Samantha cheated, Chrissy rejected you three times. You know why? Because you weren't worth their bloody time. You're not good enough for anyone. Especially not him._ The voice sneered at him. John buried his face in his hands. He was tired. Too tired to argue anymore.

_Please stop._ He inwardly begged. He couldn't deal with it. He'd dealt with failure, but had always coped. This time it looked like there wasn't a way out. No way out of the gutter. He wasn't even going out with a hurrah. Just a torn picture, a story without a plot, doomed to fade away without so much as a cry for help.

_Sherlock, I can't bloody do this anymore. -JW_

John hurled his phone at the wall, sighing as it hit the plaster and fell, unbroken. Even his mobile was more resilient than he was. At thus he let out a bitter laugh.

Damned machine.

John considered simply locating a liquor store and drinking it in it's entirety, in hopes that the alcohol would either conjure a permanent image of Sherlock for him or kill him. However, thanks to his sister, alcoholism seemed more like salt in the wound than an actual solution.

Drugs, smoking, sex... None of it appealed to him. He couldn't afford anything good, he'd tried smoking and never did like it, and he just didn't have the enthusiasm to care about sex anymore.

It left him with very little room to breathe. Not that he found breathing to be an all together worthwhile activity. Nothing really was anymore. He crossed his room and grabbed his mobile, tapping out another text.

_You should be proud. I'm going to follow in your footsteps. -JW_

He hit send with a grim smirk. Ha. It didn't take much to find his gun. He still kept it in the drawer of his bedside table. He turned the weapon over in his hands, tracing every detail with his fingers. It was sleek, dark, exquisite, and deadly. He tossed it on the bed and found a jacket. It was cold by the Thames river at night after all. He thrust the gun into his jacket pocket.

He located a pad of paper and a pen, scribbling hurriedly.

_I don't want any of it. Not the furniture, not the money, not anything. Don't bother giving it to any family, unless Mycroft wants any of Sherlock's things. Toss the rest. Dearest Mrs Hudson, you've been so kind, and I couldn't possibly thank you enough. Mycroft, I'm sorry I couldn't look after Sherlock. Please do forgive me._

_-John Watson_

He left the note on the table and was out of the flat in seconds.

_'That's what people do, right?'_

He shivered as the cold London air hit him.

_'Leave a note?'_

He didn't bother hailing a cab. He didn't have any money and wanted to walk anyway.

_'Well this is my note.'_

John lost track of time, only measuring the distance until he'd be on the river bank. The wind whipped past him and stung his cheeks, pricking at all available skin, though John took no notice.

_Now would be the time for a miracle, you daft git. -JW_

John made his way to the water's edge and stared out over London. If he were Sherlock he could tell you how many lights peered out from across the river. If he were Sherlock, he could tell you exactly how far away each and every one of them was. If he were Sherlock, he'd about to be without a blogger.

John lifted the gun from his pocket, hands shaking ever so slightly, but he blamed it on the chilly bite of the wind.

_This is my note. Goodbye Sherlock Holmes, you brilliant, beautiful bastard. -JW_


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock had lived with Molly for approximately one week before he noticed that the only person he'd spoken to on his mobile was Mycroft. John had not sent him a single text since he had evidently realised that Sherlock was dead. Although this was not unreasonable, that John should discover his texting to Sherlock vain and cease the activity, but sentimentality was one of John's greatest flaws. That and his infinite hope. There was no way he'd simply stop trying to reach Sherlock, and it rather unnerved the detective.

It was for that reason that he slipped away one morning, shortly after Molly had left for work. He walked quickly, knowing it would be several hours before he reached his destination. It would only be a few short minutes should he opt for a cab, but he hardly trusted the cabbies. It was nothing personal; until he was supposed to be seen, he wished to remain out of sight as much as possible. Around mid-afternoon, Sherlock found himself on Baker Street, his walk having slowed to an ambling gait as he wandered down the familiar road. He paused at the café that neighboured 221B, looking up for any sign of movement in the window, hoping to see John walking about, perhaps with a woman, then Sherlock's suspicions would be relieved and he could return to Molly's flat with a clear head.

Sherlock waited for quite some time. The sun began to set and still he had seen nothing. He wandered around London, always returning in hopes of seeing John.

Sherlock's mobile buzzed and, expecting it to be Mycroft complaining about his little stroll, it was a text. First one in weeks. And god damn if it didn't stop his heart then and there.

_Sherlock, I can't bloody do this anymore. -JW_

Sherlock's stomach leapt into his throat and suddenly he was shaking. Not a shiver from the cold, but something else. He resisted the urge that clawed at the inside of his head to run upstairs and take John into his arms, make him tea, apologise for hours, or at the very least, text back.

When finally it was dark, he saw a light flick on. Not entirely content, Sherlock hung around for a short while longer, only to see the light go out again. His mobile vibrated in his pocket once more. Part of him whispered him not to check, to leave it be. But that part was quickly drowned out by the rest of him screaming to look.

_You should be proud. I'm going to follow in your footsteps. -JW_

_Oh god._ He heard footsteps, causing him to scurry behind the corner, peering out at the door, heart beating violently in his chest, pounding against his ribcage.

And there he was. There was John, still alive and in 221B. But seeing him did not relieve Sherlock's worries. If anything, it worsened them tremendously. John appeared frail and a sickly off-white, his hair dull and he seemed to nearly drown in clothes that fit his body perfectly only last year. John glanced around nervously, hands stuffed in his pockets, and was off. Sherlock tagged along, always staying far enough back not to be suspected.

They had been walking for some time when Sherlock finally realised where they were going, and it only confirmed his worst fears. As John led him to the river, the impulse in Sherlock to simply reach out and grab John to pull him back, back from all this intensified and multiplied until the beating of his heart surprised him; he was certain the organ had been ripped from his chest.

_Now would be the time for a miracle, you daft git. -JW_

Sherlock knew he had to do something. To hell with Mycroft and his rules. This all would have been pointless at any rate should John die. John produced a gun from his coat pocket and watched over the water before focusing his attention on the gun. He replaced the weapon on favour of his phone one last time.

_This is my note. Goodbye Sherlock Holmes, you brilliant, beautiful bastard. -JW_

The dam burst.

_You can't do this. -SH_

John looked up wildly.

_Sherlock? -JW_

"In the flesh." Sherlock murmured, sliding effortlessly down the bank and walking to John.

John turned and his face darkened. "No... No, no, no. It doesn't work like this. I'm not drunk. You're just a plain old hallucination this time. Go _away_." He stumbled backwards and squeezed his eyes tight for a moment, breathing deep before opening them. "God damn it, can't you _see_ that I can't do this anymore?! I don't _want_ you anymore! You've screwed with my head. You let me in, you killed yourself, but no, you were just too clever to even let me believe that. I couldn't even have closure, just bloody abandonment issues!" His voice shook as he let loose.

"John," Sherlock began gently, "John it's me. I'm real, this is real, I'm back, I came back for you. I don't want you to die. Don't die. Please."

John shook his head, his voice small when he responded. "You're not real. You never are. Besides, Sherlock Holmes would never beg."

"But I have before, haven't I? When I was on the roof? I needed you to be calm, be alright. Just like I need you now to understand that I'm here with you, it's no one but me, and you."

John looked up, eyes dark and dull, almost a lifeless grey; a stark contrast to the brilliant blues Sherlock remembered. "It hurts," he mumbled. "It hurts but it's this dull, _empty_ ache, and it bloody hurts!" He shouted, voice exploding. "It hurts so much. You did this to me, you made this hurt." He gripped at his shirt, tugging and pulling. "But I lived through it. I made it through. I wrapped a plaster around the broken pieces and I tried to live, because you, you were worth it!" He bit his lower lip and quivered silently for a long moment.

"If you're real," John challenged helplessly, "then stop me." He tossed the mobile he'd been clutching beside him. In one quick movement, he'd flicked off the safety and pressed the gun to his temple. Then, with a flash of his eyes between Sherlock and the weapon, he lowered it to his chest. "Nothing like dying of a broken heart."

Sherlock lurched at John, but the hole that the detective felt in his chest was now a very real manifestation in John, who lay bleeding on the ground before him.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock phoned for an ambulance immediately, his mobile squeezed between his ear and shoulder as he dropped to his knees and frantically looked over John's injury.

"Come on, don't you dare die on me," Sherlock muttered, hovering at John's throat, fingers to his pulse point. If nothing else, he needed to just make sure that he was still alive. He tore open John's shirt, ripping off pieces of fabric with which to clean out blood, and finally pulled his scarf off and tied it tight around John's chest, a makeshift tourniquet until the paramedics could do better.

It couldn't have been more than a minute, but it felt like an eternity before Sherlock heard sirens. He waved his arms and called out, making sure that he was seen. It was difficult to navigate the riverbank being as muddy as it was, but there were people surrounding Sherlock and his ward in very little time, pulling Sherlock out of the way and gingerly loading John on to the stretcher.

He was in too much of a daze to properly hear or process anything anyone said, but he was lead into the back of the ambulance, John's overly pale body lying, still, before him.

Despite his best attempts, Sherlock was stopped when they arrived at the hospital, being kept in the waiting room while John was wheeled to the emergency wing. No matter how much his mind was slipping, it did not elude him, the tone of urgency underlying the doctors' and nurses' voices. It would be all very touch-and-go until John either pushed through, or gave up.

Sherlock did not believe in God, but found himself praying to him nevertheless that it would be the former.

The next few hours were spent restlessly pacing the waiting room, ignoring the stares of strangers as his coat swished with every turn of his heel. Finally one of the staff came to tell him that he needed to sit, relax, that he was making some of the other patients nervous. So he sat, on the edge of the poorly padded seat, and rested his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

He tried desperately to reassure himself. These were great doctors, they were sure to be doing as good a job as they possibly could, John's injury was serious but definitely treatable, John had shot himself, John had tried to kill himself, John...

He buried his head hopelessly in his hands. Every wretched second that ticked heavily by was an eternity, and every eternity seemed to come with increased humidity, until Sherlock felt as if he were choking on the atmosphere around him. A nurse came by and shuffled him outside and fetched him a cup of water. It was normal, he'd been assured, this was common, it'd pass, maybe he should stay outside for a bit, with a blanket should such a thing be desired.

And so Sherlock waited. He waited for hours in the bite of a particularly crisp dawn, a sign that gave him very little comfort. There were no birds to sing for him that morning. Every sound was silence, as if the Earth itself were in mourning. Sherlock shook his head clear. Simple robins had no way to tell if anyone had died. And even if they did, this was a hospital. People were dying. That's what people do.

_'But John isn't just a person, is he?'_ asked the little voice inside his head. _'Oh he's so much more than that and you know it. Your very world would shatter if you lost him.'_ There was no denying it, only ignoring the voice that told him things he did wish to hear, about John, about himself.

Morning dew clung to the fabric of Sherlock's coat and soaked him. He wandered back inside, mindlessly asking a nurse if there was any news of his friend. The answer was no.

Taking the advice of some voice that had managed to find its way to Sherlock's ears, he journeyed to the hospital cafeteria, ordering a cup of coffee and a small sandwich. Whether or not he wanted food, it would keep him awake. He couldn't afford to sleep while John's life hung on by a thread.

It was days before he received any news that wasn't 'we're doing everything we can', and when it was, it wasn't clear that it was good news. He was called up, and a young woman took him by the arm, speaking to him gently, like she was talking to a child. "You understand, of course, that every possible measure was taken to save your friend's life, right?" Sherlock did not answer; the question was simply a statement, some attempt at reassurance, perhaps to alleviate any guilt or resentment Sherlock might feel should John die, towards himself, the hospital, John, the whole world.

The last of the set seemed ridiculous, as Sherlock already held all of London and the useless sheep that claimed to be its inhabitants responsible for John's misery in the first place. It was quite fortunate for them that mass homicide was illegal, as Sherlock found very few of them worthy of the oxygen they wasted.

Sherlock was snapped back to reality when he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder. The nurse must have noticed that he was beginning to lose it. "We were lucky enough to save his life," she began, "although we aren't sure for how long." Sherlock was lead down a long hall that stunk of death and saline, and finally herded into a small room. It was unremarkable; the stark white walls were faded but it only made them seem brighter. The scent of alcohol and blood clung to the air itself, and every breath bit with a metallic tang. John lay, unconscious, on a hospital bed that engulfed him. It was so wrong. Bones stood out against his skin, and he seemed to shrink away underneath tubes and IV's, his hospital gown-clothed body swaddled in sterile sheets. A silence that would have driven Sherlock mad was pierced by shallow beeps from various machines all surrounding John, assuring that he was alive, but simultaneously reminded that he was hardly in the world of the living.

"He's in a coma," the nurse explained softly, "from shock and severity of his injuries. Aside from the bullet wound, he's severely malnourished and has some bruising on his back and along his sides, presumably from where he fell on the river bank. He's alive all right, but we aren't sure how long he can last like this. As weak as he is, he isn't strong enough to fight without a helping hand, and even that may not be enough. Should he get an infection, we can't say for sure that he'll live." She drew in a deep breath and solemnly looked up at Sherlock. "If he doesn't wake up soon, it isn't clear that he ever will."


	8. Chapter 8

The last thing John could remember was Sherlock's voice. It was unclear what he had been saying, but it was there. He felt fire rip through his chest. It was like when he'd been shot in Afghanistan, though there was no distance between him and the bullet, just metal tearing through his weakened flesh.

Through the fire, however, he could have sworn he felt something. Sherlock touched him. Fingers pressed up against his throat and John sputtered, fear hitting him hard. If this was real, he could have just destroyed the only chance he had left to get his friend back. If it wasn't... Well if it wasn't then he would rather be dying anyway.

The thought had barely surfaced when John's mind went white with pain and overstimulation, and then black. Empty.

When John woke next, he could sense immediately that something was terribly, terribly wrong. Silence bore down on him, suffocated, deafened him. Stark nothingness pushed him out from the inside, fit to burst. The scalding lack of sensation blistered his body, and silent screams were ripped from a motionless throat. He was parched and drowning, suspended in air, in water, in fire, in everything but nothing at all. There was no movement, not from him, and none around him. The landscape of his mind was a desolate stretch of barrens.

He felt stranded, with no way to mark the passage of time, not even a cognitive function that was active enough to count, or to properly think. But it was long, so long, too long before his senses slowly dragged back. He could hear silence, not just a muffling pressure in his mind where his brain would be fed sounds to process into information. There were soft blips, several sets of them. One was a constant _beep...beep...beep...,_ the repetition oddly soothing. It felt familiar, somehow. He was unable to place it, his memories still just beyond his reach.

He wrapped himself around the noise as it filtered through his mind. Associations flashed briefly before his eyes.

_Sh-_

_Shh-_

_Her-_

_Sher?_

The effort hurt. He let himself slip away again, slumbering to _beep...beep...beep..._

The voices came soon. He couldn't understand them, couldn't make out the words, but they were there. The first was light, gentle, sounded almost like bells. The second was much lower, rougher, almost broken. Hearing it, for reasons unknown to John, sent a jolt through his stomach, made his heart clench and beat uncomfortably. And yet, despite the pain, he longed to hear it, wanted to call out for its owner when the voice left him, and he found himself trying to whisper.

_Sh..._

He couldn't remember what the rest was supposed to be. It felt like it was locked, somewhere he couldn't unearth. Locked.

_Lock._

But blood pumped through his veins, and for once he felt it. Warm skin, slowed pulse, beating heart, but barely. All the tell tale signs that he was alive. And he would stay alive until he could remember.

It was a hushed whisper, locked away. It was dark but light flooded from beneath it. Deep blue oceans watched him drown, swallowed him. It was all so familiar, but just beyond his reach. He grabbed over and over again, falling short every time.

No. No, that wasn't it. It wasn't a whisper, it was a sound. It wasn't locked, it was in plain sight, _lock,_ that was it.

_Sherlock._

John's eyes fluttered open, only to snap shut again, the bright lights above his head too much for him. He heard rustling, then a crash beside him as someone fell to the floor at his bedside.

"John? John, can you hear me? I swear to you, I'm real, I'm Sher-"

"Sherlock." John's voice was quiet, almost inaudible, and hoarse from disuse. He kept his eyes closed, still unwilling to face the lights, but more importantly, the man beside him. Hands that were larger than his own clasped his tightly, then relaxed. Sherlock's thumb rubbed small circles along the backs of John's hands.

"See?" His voice was soft, almost childlike. There was something that John had only ever heard when Sherlock spoke to him. He was afraid. "I'm here. Promise."

John nodded ever so slightly. "Don't... Don't ever do that again. Understand? Never leave me." John croaked, his throat suddenly aching and his mouth impossibly dry.

"Of course. Never again. I'm here to stay," Sherlock vowed. "Oh god I'm glad you're awake." The relieved tone of his voice was foreign on John’s ears, and it made him curious enough to turn his head to the side and open his eyes. He blinked and they watered, trying to accustom themselves to the light. Sherlock was on his knees at John’s bedside, his deep blue-green-grey eyes brimming with concern, scanning John’s face, trying to look for any sign that this might not be real, that John still wasn’t convinced he was here, that John hadn’t really pulled through. 

It tore John apart, seeing that look, the one that shouldn’t be there. Worry tugged at the corners of his lips and there was a deep furrow permanently set in his brow that hadn’t been there before the fall. His insides twisted, and his mouth fell open and closed several times, as if he were gaping for air. In truth, he was stuck between trying to form a coherent sentence and simply losing it. He closed his eyes again and let his head fall back against the deep pillows of his bed, calming himself before he had the chance to make this whole situation worse. 

John hesitated to ask, unsure if he really wanted to know the answer, but he steeled his resolve and turned to face Sherlock, eyes open and honest and scared and _raw._ "How long has it been?"

"A year."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the late update, I've been sick with a terrible fever and entrance exams and STAR testing and just -- UGH. Hopefully Chapter 10 will be here a bit quicker.

A year.

Over a year.

Over four-hundred twenty-three days.

Over ten thousand, one-hundred fifty-two hours he'd spent, terrified.

Over six-hundred nine thousand, one-hundred twenty minutes had been wasted worried out of his mind.

More than thirty-six million, five-hundred forty-seven thousand, two-hundred seconds believing John would die, and that he was the cause.

And all that time, while John's life hung limply in the balance, Sherlock had done nothing but look on helplessly.

He only slept when sleep consumed him, only ate when hunger rubbed him raw from the inside out, and refused to leave John's bedside for a second. It was one nurse, mostly, who came in to check on Sherlock frequently. Whoever came to look in on John depended solely on the schedule, but the young woman who came to Sherlock was always the same.

She was tall, fair-skinned, and had thick ginger curls that fell just below her shoulder in ringlets, and settled comfortably on the swell of her breast when they weren't tied back in a braid or ponytail. She had charming green eyes and full, pink lips that formed a warm, caring smile.

It was several weeks into John's hospitalisation that the two had met. She had waltzed in to record vitals, an obviously sunny disposition about her, though she seemed melancholy when she looked at John. Didn't pity him, but seemed to dislike the notion that he was in such a state. "He's your friend, is he?" She asked politely, jotting down something on a clipboard.

"I suppose so." Sherlock's answer was curt, clipped.

The nurse shook her head. "I heard what happened. It's a right tragedy, feelin' like that's the only option you 'ave." Sherlock was mildly amused to find that her accent was actually rather soothing. He didn't mind listening to her talk, so long as she didn't try to be overly sympathetic.

"Sometimes things get difficult." Was his only reply. A charged silence fell, and she stood in the doorway.

"Amy," she said gently. "You need anything, you call for Amy Fisher, yeah?" She gave a short nod and left the room.

For a week, there was no sign of Amy. Then, one particularly gloomy Sunday, Sherlock woke from one of his inevitable slumbers to a coffee and napkin-wrapped scone in front of him. Still bleary from sleep, he took the small breakfast and did not question the owner of the hands they had been in.

There was a disapproving click of a tongue. "He won't like it much, your mate here, if he wakes up n' sees you've gone and bloody starved yourself, isn't that right?" Amy leaned back against the door to John's room. "I'm guessin' he's the only one that reminded you that you need to eat and sleep in the first place." Sherlock sipped at the coffee - hot, but just enough to wake him up - and watched as she spoke. She rested most of her weight on one leg, arms crossed underneath her breasts, outfitted in lavender scrubs, a blue ribbon accentuating her ponytail quite nicely.

Sherlock nodded. "He did complain that I was more machine than man. But I suppose even supercomputers need to be shut off every now and then." He sighed.

Amy walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I read up on him. He's a fighter, and you should know." She leaned in close and whispered, "You just watch, you won't be alone forever."

By the time Sherlock had processed the words and turned around, Amy had gone. Sherlock couldn't help but smile despite himself. He reached out to wrap his hand around John's. "It would seem, John, that you've gone and gotten yourself a fan club."

Sherlock found himself looking forward to the days when Amy would stop by, often bringing food with her, and force him to eat in exchange for the companionship. She was younger than him, still in her late twenties. With Amy there came a slight relief from the boredom and worry he felt almost constantly.

"It's a waste you're a nurse," he commented one day, "I think you're much more suited to be a therapist. Social worker, perhaps."

Amy grinned and shook her head, rust-coloured curls bouncing across her shoulders. "I prefer this. Helping in little doses where I'm needed. You need someone, Sherlock. You had him, but you've got to realise that he isn't here right now." Her tone switched from its usual light airiness to something more somber and concerned. "I know 'bout you too, luv, and your story isn't all that pretty. I'm no replacement, but you've got to stop this. If no one else, talk to me, yeah?" Sherlock searched her eyes, perhaps this was Mycroft's doing, trying to prevent Sherlock from shooting up again. But no, there was nothing fake about the way she held his wrist, the way a sort of protective affection swam in the deep emerald light of her eyes, and how gingerly she cared for John when it was her turn to record and report his vital signs.

"Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, I'll talk to you. Thank you, Amy. It's been... Rather nice." She pecked his cheek and left again. Her visits were always short, as was to be expected with a schedule like hers, but she never rushed through her brief sessions with Sherlock. If he were a different sort of person, he’d have called her a friend. But after nearly a year of constantly being his voice of reason, and a soft, vanilla-scented shoulder to lean on when John’s attempted suicide became all too much. She became something to him, something, perhaps, akin to the love he had for Mrs Hudson. This was someone who cared for him, who pushed him to survive even when he was incapable of doing so for himself. This was someone he cared for as well. No harm would come to this woman. 

And so, when John awoke, he immediately shot a text to Amy.

_John's awake. If convenient, come immediately. -SH_

_If inconvenient, come anyway. I want you to meet him. -SH_


	10. Chapter 10

A year. John's eyes widened in shock. "Sherlock, I-"

"Shut up. Please, just shut up. Give me a moment to enjoy this before you start apologising." John couldn't help the small smile that flashed across his features at that.

"Alright," he murmured softly.

He basked in the glow of Sherlock’s attention fixed on him. Nothing felt more at home, more familiar than being studied by Sherlock. It was odd, craving the fixated, judgmental gaze, but it was addicting.

A few moments later, a nurse bounded into the room, her curly ginger locks spilling over her shoulders. Sherlock turned to face her and she smiled. He mirrored her excited expression. She crouched down beside him, and John was surprised to see that Sherlock didn't care that she was pressed up against him. In fact, he seemed to be quite comfortable with it.

Sherlock must've sensed his confusion, because he nudged the woman and she said abruptly, "Oh! Right! I'm Amy. You must be John, yeah?" John nodded wordlessly. "It's nice to finally meet you awake, John. I was one of the nurses who looked after you this past year." Shooting a mock-irritated side glance at Sherlock, she added, "I looked after your friend here quite a bit as well." She shook her head in disbelief. "How you managed to live with this one, I'll never know."

There were thousands of thoughts milling about in John's head. The first being centred solely around Amy. He wanted to know who this woman was, and, more importantly, he wanted desperately to know who she was to Sherlock. A friend? No, Sherlock didn't have friends ( _'Except for you,'_ a voice in his head crooned traitorously). A colleague? Hardly, she didn't seem the type to be much of a crime-scene helper ( _'But she could be persuaded. Sherlock is so good at persuading people into getting what he wants.'_ ). A lover? No, of course not, she couldn't be- could she? ( _'She could! She could!'_ Alarms went off in his head. _'So pretty and smart and sweet and oh so obviously mad about him, you don't stand a_ chance,' the voice sneered.)

John felt his stomach twist uncomfortably. "I'm sure your tum's grumbling somethin' awful," Amy clucked, noticing John's discomfort. "I'll get you some proper food, luv. You just sit tight, yeah?" She gave a good-natured smile and scurried off, presumably to locate lunch for John.

John managed to push himself up into a proper sitting position, and slid over in his bed, the stuff white sheets rustling at his minute movements. He glanced between Sherlock's face and the empty space on his bed, a sign Sherlock understood immediately. He sat beside John, long legs hanging over the side and still firmly planted on the linoleum tile floor.

"Are you feeling alright? Do you need anything?" Sherlock's voice was heavy with worry and concern, a tone foreign to John's ears. He'd heard it so often when Sherlock was acting, trying to drag answers out of witnesses, but never like this. He sounded sincere, and devastatingly _raw._

John shook his head and hummed. "I'm fine. A bit dizzy, sleepy, and she was right - I'm famished." John stared down at his hands in his lap, for lack of a better place to focus his gaze, fearing it would betray his own suspicious hurt. "Are you...? That woman. Who is she to you?"

Sherlock cocked his head, as if trying to read John's tense expression. After the years apart, John supposed that he was out of practice at understanding every face John made at merely a glance. "Are you jealous?" He asked finally.

John's head snapped up and toward Sherlock. His response caught in his throat as he realised that maybe he was. Jealous of the woman who got to spend the last year with Sherlock while John was hardly of the living world. He had no idea what went on between them and he was deadly curious, the need to know pulsed in his veins. Instead, John swallowed nervously and repeated, "Who is she to you?"

Sherlock sighed. "She's like... She's like Mrs Hudson. Bullied me with suffocating kindness. Made me eat and sleep. And she isn't entirely stupid. So I tolerated her presence. I think you'd like her, if you stopped being jealous of her for five seconds." He lifted a hand to reassure John, but didn't quite settle it on his shoulder, simply let it hover in the air above, until thinking better of it and pulling the hand back. "You know, I would have spent the year with you, if you hadn't..." He trailed off softly, turning away.

John nodded sharply. Right. He tried to kill himself. Attempted suicide of one's best friend could easily drive one into the arms of a young, sympathetic, beautiful nurse. John supposed he was lucky that that wasn't the case. Not quite. But he was glad, too. Glad that Sherlock didn't love her, didn't want her, that he had been presented with every opportunity and turned it down every time because of John. Glad that Sherlock was still his.

John was most definitely in love with Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're coming to the end of this, and for everyone who's followed me this far, thank you so much. This is my first completed work and I'm delighted to have shared it with all of you. The chapters are likely to be even shorter from here on out, just wrapping things up in a nice little bow.  
> :)


	11. Chapter 11

A week passed uneventfully by as John recovered. Tests all showed that while yes, he had definitely been shot in the chest, he was doing as well as could be expected. His time spent comatose had been largely a time for his body to heal. Progress was slow and there were several close calls, but by the time John had regained consciousness, what remained of his wound was a second reddish-pink starburst of puckered skin. It matched the one on his shoulder, though was slightly larger, partially in thanks to the closer range of the shot. His chest still ached when he moved, but he was spared the acute pain he would have suffered immediately after the shot.

Sherlock tended to him in any way he could, and was often assisted by Amy, who he found to be a lovely companion and rather a source of sanity, in contrast to Sherlock's chaotic idea of what 'care' entailed.

After the week of tests and check-ups passed, Sherlock began pestering anyone who would listen as to when John could go home with him. Most of John's doctors were in agreement that it would not be much longer. Over the course of the year, the fact of John's attempted suicide had been made known, and he was to make a visit to a hospital-appointed therapist at least once before he could be cleared to return to Baker Street.

He was stubborn at first, but Sherlock's pleading was rare enough that he took it seriously, and during one of Amy's visits they asked to get in touch with Ms Amanda Gale. Amy returned almost immediately with a card that had Amanda's name and number on it. Sherlock called her and left John's room as he spoke, returning several minutes later with a forced smile.

"You'll see her tomorrow afternoon, right after lunch. Two o'clock."

 

As John examined the room around him, he took note of how similar it looked to Ella's, but lacked the window he'd lost himself in staring out of so many times. It forced him to look at the woman before him. She looked older than him; late forties or early fifties. Her reddish-brown chestnut hair spilled out of a purposely messy bun in a vain attempt at looking casual, and it was streaked with silver at the roots, through she still had most of her natural colour. Her hazel eyes were warm and kind, but had no depth. Sure, she might really want to help, but she would only ever see John as another patient, not a person that she wanted to know and play an active role in the life of. John was fine with that.

"John," she began sweetly, a smile dancing across her glossed pink lips, a colour better suited to a younger mouth. "I heard about your accident. I'm here to make sure that everything is okay, and to talk about what prompted you to do what you did. You can call me Mandy." Mandy made no move to offer her hand, simply kept her fingers curled around her clipboard, manicured nails taping at the hard surface.

John nodded and took a deep breath. "Right. The accident. So, you see, after I was invalided home from Afghanistan - you have my file, I'm sure you know the story - I had little to live for. Tiny bedsit, army pension, alcoholic sister, no friends, no job, no nothing. I wasn't sure what would happen to me. I was starting to contemplate suicide then.

"I ran into an old school friend of mine. He introduced me to Sherlock Holmes. We moved into a flat together, I got a job at the surgery part-time, so I was happy. I was useful. Everything was looking up, finally.

"About a year and a half into this... Situation, which was stressful at times, but overall very good, my flatmate, and my best friend, killed himself. I'm sure you read about it in the paper last year..." John abruptly stopped, realising his mistake. A twinge of guilt twisted in his gut. "No, two years ago. It was two. 'Suicide of Fake Genius' was plastered everywhere for months. I spent a year thinking he was dead. Everything fell apart, and I was completely convinced he would never come back to me, so I lost it. I tried to kill myself.

"And then I saw him when I woke up and I realised how devastatingly in love with him I was - and still am." John sighed and scrubbed at his forehead with his palms. "And here we are."

John felt surprisingly light. He'd never really opened up to Ella, but this woman... No, it had nothing to do with her. But it had everything to do with Sherlock. Sherlock had made him feel so raw, vulnerable, and emotionally volatile recently, that it was inevitable that everything would come rushing out of him at some point.

Mandy blinked several times, then got to scribbling furiously down on her clipboard. When she was finished, she looked up and smiled. "I'm happy you shared that with me, John. Do you feel better for having told me?"

Ah, yes. This. How do you _feel?_ "Better. I think that my times of depression are behind me. All I needed was some closure, and I was lucky enough to end up with a chance for a second beginning. I just want to move on with Sherlock and put this whole business behind me. I want to focus on the future, not the past," he lied with a forced grin. "In all honesty, Mandy, I'm just rather eager to be getting home."

Mandy nodded sympathetically. "Of course, of course. Just a few more routine questions, dear." She rattled on, and John kept up his appearances and answered the way she wanted to. When John caught her writing 'Happy with life with flatmate; mostly stable,' he figured it wouldn't be long. _Just smile and wave. Smile and wave._

 

The taxi ride home was quiet. Sherlock occasionally babbled on about one thing or another while John nodded and smiled, enjoying the sound of the detective's voice without actually listening to the words. It was light conversation, mostly small talk that John knew Sherlock was making solely for his benefit, to make him feel comfortable. But there was nothing for John to say, not here. He needed to talk with Sherlock seriously, privately.

Sherlock paid the cabbie and held the door open for John, who replied by huffing, "I can open it myself, you know." Sherlock merely grinned and answered, "I know."

Mrs Hudson was out; she must have been to miss John's return. They made their way up to 221B, where John collapsed into his old armchair with a satisfied sigh. Sherlock was in the kitchen, making tea. John knew it was all to keep John happy, to try to get used to life with the both of them again, and he knew it wouldn't last. That, however, wouldn't stop him from enjoying the treatment while it lasted, so long as Sherlock didn't start trying to bathe or dress him.

Several minutes later, both men were sitting, each with a cup of untouched tea. There was tension so thick it was palpable, and Sherlock's eyes bore uncomfortably into John, who, at length, finally spoke. "We're friends. Close friends, I like to think.  And it's funny, now that I think about it."

"What is?" Sherlock I asked patiently, his mug balanced on his thighs as he sat upright on the couch.

"Mrs Hudson, Angelo, Mycroft, Irene, everyone." John couldn't help a dry chuckle. "Mrs Hudson assumed we'd be sharing a bed, Angelo decided we were on a date, Mycroft, though jokingly, I'm sure, if that's something he's capable of, asked if there'd be a 'happy announcement' soon. Even Irene told me I was jealous. Sherlock, I get that you're married to your work. I get that you always will be. But it's only fair that you're at least aware of my feelings."

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, suspicious of what would come next. "And these feelings would be?" He inquired, eyes narrowed.

John smiled weakly. "The horribly cliché ones of schoolgirl infatuation that I have for you. It's silly, I know, but I have to just. Say it. I love you, and it's okay that you don't reciprocate, because in happy enough being your friend. No matter our relationship, I'm more than content just staying by your side."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "If you could give me some time, John, I'd like to examine my own to give you a proper response. Is that alright?"

"Take all the time in the world."

Sherlock rose, taking his rapidly cooling mug of tea with him as he disappeared into his room.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everything is wrapped up in a delightful bow, with just a bit of intimacy.

Sherlock spent several hours holed up in his room, simply thinking. He was being forced to seriously re-evaluate what he felt for John. John was his friend; his best friend. God, if there were such thing as soul mates Sherlock might've believed that John was his, but never considered that it might be on a more than platonic level. There was no doubt about the lengths he would have - and in many instances, had - gone to in order to keep John safe and by his side. John was incredible; he was brave (though sometimes stupidly, blindly so), loyal, kind, caring, and when he thought of it, he was quite handsome, too. It was no surprise that he was so often sought after by the opposite sex and, on occasion and despite his protests, the same, as well.

John was everything. He was the one that kept Sherlock eating, drinking, sleeping, _breathing._ John had been willing to die just to be with Sherlock, unable to exist in a world without the detective. John had been so insistent that Sherlock was not the cold, unfeeling freak that he so often led people to believe he was. He'd broken through that façade and somehow managed to fall in love with the detective for reasons vastly unknown to the man. And yet, he'd found a spot inside of Sherlock's heart and his mind, built himself a home there, and now refused to be ignored. 

Sherlock examined himself. Looking in the mirror, he watched his pupils dilate as thoughts of his flatmate flitted through his mind. His pulse increased and his heart began to pound rapidly in his chest when he entertained the thought of his lips on John's, feeling calloused hands wander his skin, heated touches shared between them. Biologically, all the signs of a physical infatuation were there. Emotionally, he felt the sort of tug towards John that he'd heard by others be described only as love - he was obsessed with John, John's well-being, John's happiness, John's companionship - and at least now, with John's feelings already professed to him, there was no shame in admitting it, no reason to hide and lie and suppress his emotions this time.

For a while he did consider lying, though. He'd already done so much damage to John. He'd put the man through chronic depression, a suicide attempt, and only served to deepen his trust issues with his sudden disappearance and the lies that followed. Perhaps if he rejected John's feelings, the other would drop the whole ordeal and move on with his life, find another girl to date, one Sherlock would do his best not to drive away out of petty jealousy and possessiveness so that John could be happy without him. John was steadfast and stubborn, it would take him some time to get over his crush, but he could do it, he was sure. But then again, Sherlock was selfish. He always got what he wanted, and took it by force if necessary. John was no different in that Sherlock wanted him, but completely unique in that there would never be another like John, and Sherlock would never feel this way about anyone ever again. He was not one to feel very much, but when he did, he felt it with a fierce, desperate passion, and now John was the object of the dangerously intense affections.

There was no getting around it; Sherlock was cruel and selfish and devastatingly in love with John Watson.

\-------------------

 

While Sherlock did his own examination of his feelings towards him, John did his best to busy his mind with easy, mundane tasks that required just enough of his attention that he wouldn't be solely centered on Sherlock, and all things that were so extremely... Sherlock. He pottered about the flat, which had not been cleaned since he left, and lived in almost equally as much. He dusted the forlorn bookshelves, cleared the fridge of any dangerous-looking foods, such as the months-old expired milk, and the hunk of mold that was more than likely cheese at some point in its life. He wiped down the counters and stovetops, rinsed out the kettle, and filled it up, setting it on to boil. Nothing soothed him like a cup of tea. Granted he'd just finished one, but there wasn't enough food in the flat for a proper meal, and tea was simple and relaxing. John's mother had always said that if there was ever a row that couldn't be solved with a civil tongue and a cup of good tea, it was not a row worth solving. This was obviously no row, but the way his mind sparked and fought and rebelled against itself, it might as well have been. 

Part of him wanted to just run, tell Sherlock it was just in the heat of the moment, that he was just feeling emotionally compromised and jumped to Sherlock as the nearest available person to throw himself at. He sighed as the kettle started to whistle. He fetched himself a clean mug and a tea bag, leaving it to steep as he paced the length of the kitchen restlessly. He had just settled into his armchair, sipping nervously at his tea when he heard the door to Sherlock's bedroom open and the sound of soft footfalls padding towards the sitting room. 

Sherlock made his way to the couch, and remained silent for a few moments. Finally, he took a deep breath and spoke. "I'm selfish," he stated, and John nodded, holding back a snide remark. "And being as such, I have no interest in denying myself what I want." He met John's gaze and held it. His eyes were unfathomable, and impossibly deep. As always, John wasn't able to parse a single thought, completely unable to read Sherlock's face. Sherlock's brilliant, beautiful, incredible, _impossibly_ face. "What I want," he began slowly, "is, and always has been, you. I've never been willing to lose you, and when I left you it was to ensure that you wouldn't be in danger. I've only ever wanted to protect you, and keep you with me. I can't stand seeing you with anyone else. I don't want to see you with anyone who isn't me. John, you must understand that I will be petulant, jealous, and fiercely _possessive_ with you. If that bothers you, leave now. We'll each have a few days of space to cool down, and then you'll determine our arrangement after that, and whether you still want to share the flat or not." 

To anyone who did not know Sherlock Holmes like John did, it would seem that the detective was perfectly calm and composed, in complete control of his emotions. John, however, could see the way that the hands folded across his lap were nearly vibrating with anticipation, the slightly wavering gaze that betrayed uncertainty, and the rigidity of his posture was obvious over compensation for a man who wanted nothing more than to curl up and disappear. The intimacy of seeing Sherlock like this at all made John's pulse flutter and jump in his throat. After what seemed like it could have been an eternity, though it was only a handful of seconds, John cleared his throat. He found that it was difficult to speak. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt heavy in his mouth.

"From the second we met, I admired you. From the second I killed that cabbie, I thought of you as a friend. From the second you tore that bomb off my chest, I knew I'd never want to let you go. From the instant that I saw your body hit the ground, I was shattered. And since I found out you were back, and that you were real, I realised how desperately in love I was with you" John confessed, letting the words tumble from his mouth. "And I want you, all of you. I want pompous and cocky and over-confident, I want the mood swings, the violin screeching and softening at ungodly hours in the morning, but more than anything I just want you. You're everything I never knew I needed until you barged into my life and made it worth living. I love you, Sherlock Holmes, and I'm an idiot for it, I'm sure, but that doesn't change the fact. I want the obsession, the desperation, all of it."

There was a tense silence that followed, and neither one of them spoke. And before he had time to notice that Sherlock had moved form his spot on the couch, John was being pinned against his chair by a very flushed Sherlock, his eyes dark and pupils blown wide. He had a hand on either side of John's head, pressed firmly into the armchair. "John," he murmured, his deep baritone barely above a whisper, husky and rough as he pressed his mouth against John's neck. "I intend to keep you for myself. I have absolutely no plans of letting you leave me." He mouthed at John's pulse point before sucking on the skin, leaving a wet, red bruise in wake of his teeth. 

John bit his lip and arched his neck back, surrendering himself to Sherlock's attentions. "I don't want to," he breathed. "I never want to leave." He grabbed the hem of Sherlock's shirt, curling his fingers into the fabric. The armchair suddenly felt too small, and he started to struggle against Sherlock. Sherlock understood the gesture and climbed off of John's lap, pulling him up and out of the chair, dragging him towards his bedroom. John's jumper had disappeared, along with the majority of the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, by the time they had reached the bed. John fell onto the bed as the backs of his knees hit the mattress and Sherlock didn't miss a beat in getting them both fully onto the surface, on top of the duvet. Sherlock straddled John's hips and leaned down to kiss the blond, the kiss softer but still hurried and heated. John fought the urge to shut his eyes, forcing them open to watch as Sherlock moved to nip and kiss along John's jaw and down the side of is neck, biting where it suited him to do so.

"I have waited for this for so long," Sherlock growled, pulling John's shirt over his head, and sliding his own off only seconds afterward. "I should have seen it earlier, that you loved me, that you wanted me, and I should have taken you _years_ ago." He bit harshly at John's collarbone, then soothed the bite with his tongue. Letting out a contented hum in his throat, he added, "Forgive me, John, for being so blind to your… needs." He punctuated the last word with a distinct roll of his hips, eliciting a sudden gasp from John. He repeated the action, reveling in John's reaction to the friction. "I promise I'll make up for every second of lost time, starting now." John merely threw his head back against the pillows in submission with a low moan.

\-------------------

A month later, the two had fallen back into their old rhythm: John took shifts at the surgery when he could, Sherlock took him on cases and chases, Mycroft continued to pester them both, and Mrs Hudson continued to insist that she was not, in fact, their housekeeper. The only change was that Anderson sulked even more now that he owed Lestrade twenty quid for losing the bet, Sherlock scoffed ta the idea of a pool betting on when he would finally bed John, and the friendship between them bloomed into something more. It was unstable at times, they still bickered and fought, but at the end of it all there was still that love, and a newfound sense of hope for the both of them - they would never be alone in the world again. 

There can be no coin without two halves, and so often these two halves are as different as night and day, but they're always made of the same core material. For John and Sherlock, John's kindness accounted for Sherlock's cold indifference, and their humanity made them equals. 

_'Falling is like flying,'_ Sherlock had told him once, _'but with a more permanent destination.'_ And Sherlock had fallen, but he'd flown as well, fooling even death to make his life worth living. His permanent destination had not been the cold and unforgiving blood-splattered pavement beneath Bart's at all. It had been home. He'd landed in 221B and was resigned to it. Perhaps Sherlock had indeed fallen, but he'd done it with style.

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who's interested, feel free to follow and/or message me on tumblr, I'm ch3rryvodk4 there as well :)


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